


the mistakes you make

by clayisforgirls



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:24:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5892718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clayisforgirls/pseuds/clayisforgirls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are the one who calls the shots. You could have him and he would come, no questions asked. But you don't. Because you might have Novak, but you would lose everything else.</p><p> </p><p>Set the day before their first slam final at the Australian Open in 2011. Originally posted in January 2011.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the mistakes you make

The message is staring at you when you wake. His name on the screen of your phone, like he's your best mate and not the man who should be a rival.

_can i see you?_

It assumes nothing, and you love him for it. Novak has known you too long to expect anything less. You should say no, should tell him that this is too important to be fucking around with the guy who'll be standing on the other side of the net tomorrow.

Instead you text back _when am practicing at 6_ , and thumb through your twitter page until he replies.

It says _botanical gardens at 12?_ ; you cannot help but smile and type _yes_ without a second thought. 

After all, you have always shared good memories there. The botanical gardens are where he first kissed you, back when you were barely a year out of juniors. You'd been stupidly in love with him then too, and months later you'd stupidly broken his heart after he'd broken yours, just a little, and on the tennis court.

This time, no matter the result, you cannot afford to do the same.

\- - -

You enjoy the heat of the Melbourne summer as you walk to the gardens; your team accepting your excuse of wanting a bit of peace and quiet without a second thought. You're pleased. It's easier when there are fewer lies.

The last few months have been filled with them, since Novak came to you that night at Wimbledon. You sneak off together, have lunch that turns into more. His eyes are always bright when you come to him, and you see the extinguished spark when you leave.

It is unfair on everyone, but you are the one who controls this. You are the one who calls the shots. You could have him and he would come, no questions asked. But you don't. Because you might have Novak, but you would lose everything else.

He is waiting by the gates as you walk up, and you watch his smile widen as he sees you. Passers by don't care about the two men in caps and you nudge his shoulder. He smiles, and grabs your shirt, pulling you into the park. You know where he is taking you but let him lead you there.

When you are hidden by tall trees he kisses you; it might be stupid but you let him anyway. There are very few things you deny him now, although you hope that one will come tomorrow, that it will be you holding that trophy. You are reminded of a much younger Novak, of a Novak who didn't care about anything except having fun, and it is striking how much he has grown.

How much you both have, you realise; you are the same yet different, older and wiser, and you have learnt from your mistakes. You now know there are more important things than winning matches, things they cannot teach you about in academies. They are labelled _matters of the heart_. 

"Novak," you say, and you pull away. He looks up at you with wide eyes, as though he is expecting you to break his heart again. You understand why; junior results never tainted your friendship. The first match that mattered was the one that did.

"Do it fast, Andy," he says softly, confirming your suspicions. Twenty-three is decades from nineteen in tennis years, and you are not about to have the same regret. You wish you could say it without words, because there is no way to say it without admitting something you never have. At least to him.

Instead you kiss him again, pressing him against the trunk of the tree, and you murmur words you will never say out loud into his mouth. His fingers tighten in your shirt, and you know that he understands. Novak cannot hide his emotions the same way you do. It is why you have always known that he feels the same.

You walk for a while longer, his shoulder pressing into yours. For a moment you wish you were not Andy Murray and he was not Novak Djokovic, and you could take his hand in your own. You have both seen too much to think that life is simple; you know that if you were not who you are, you would never have met.

And something is better than nothing.

\- - - 

The message comes late that night; you are in bed, but you reach over for your phone anyway. His name sits on your screen, and you open the message against your better judgement. 

_I see you tomorrow? maybe 7.30 at the tennis_ it reads, and despite everything, you laugh. You have always enjoyed his sense of humour.

You do not usually exchange text messages with rivals, especially not the night before a final. But you don't usually kiss them either; as always, everything is different with Novak. Tomorrow you will walk on court with your head held high, and you will play as hard as you can. There are things you cannot predict, and things you do not know.

But there is one thing that you do; once the cameras have gone, and their teams have slipped away, Novak will be there with a smile.


End file.
